


Sunday Morning New York Blue

by Dallas Genoard (Kankri)



Series: Remembered Well [3]
Category: Baccano!
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kankri/pseuds/Dallas%20Genoard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ Canon - verse, with a twist on canon events. Eventual Dallas / Luck. Various other hinted pairings. ]</p><p>The hangover he didn't have from his early celebration last night was creeping up on him.  His pulse was in his temples, and it was anything but pleasant.  Today.  Today, of all days.  It couldn't have been two days previous, when he'd actually given the men more incentive to search, nor could they have dallied a day longer in retrieving him.  It had to be today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Long Day

[ **September 20** **th** **, 1932** ]

The pounding on his door at eight AM wouldn't have woken him on any other day, but today, it unfortunately had done just that. He thought to let it go – since whoever it was would eventually tire – and roll over and burrow himself back underneath the blankets, but the thought that maybe it was Berga or Keith with some harebrained scheme that would make up for their loss, he dragged himself out of bed.

Worst case scenario, maybe they rethought the definition of a surprise party and decided to haunt him in the early morning hours. A surprise indeed. Not much one that he would appreciate, however. But, perhaps not likely at all. Running his hand through his hair to attempt to spruce up his appearance even if only a little bit, he sidled down the hallway and quickly caught the door.

On his front porch stood a stout, whose face was as red as if he'd taken to sprinting here from the Hudson. He wasn't panting, however, and there was a truck idling behind him that quickly dismissed that line of thought. A strained smile lights up his face, and he extends a hand, and a clipboard, in Luck's direction. " Mister Gandor, Sir, we couldn't get in contact with Miss Genoard as you told us. A man answered the door, said she was out at the market. " He pauses, seems to consider something. " What would you like us to do with it? "

The hangover he didn't have from his early celebration last night was creeping up on him. His pulse was in his temples, and it was anything but pleasant. Today. Today, of all days. It couldn't have been two days previous, when he'd actually given the men more incentive to search, nor could they have dallied a day longer in retrieving him. It had to be _today_.

He nods in acknowledgment, and he takes the clipboard. Surveys it. The bill. Of course it was. Skimming over the paper's contents, and flipping to the back to be certain that there was nothing more, he penned his name in the given area. The delivery charges would be on her. He'd confront her about it later. Right now, he had a job, and another long afternoon ahead of him. Unfortunately.

" Thank you. " Luck's voice is dry and tired as he hands the clipboard back. He ignores the look of skepticism on the man's rounded face. Sincerity was of no importance to him when he would likely never see him again. " Just bring it up into the garage if you will, I'll take care of it later. "

" I … Yes, sir. " Another hesitation, and then the smile that was none-too-genuine fades as he steps off the porch, and scurries off to the truck.

Leaning against the door frame for a brief moment, head in hand, he considered asking the man to stay behind with a promise of fifty dollars to his bank account if he kept quiet. It's very likely that he'd already caught onto the contents, after all. The revival period wasn't long enough for the dredge from the lake and the ride all the way here to keep him quiet. And if the money didn't keep him quiet, he'd have the man's name and information to take care of him.

" Hey, " he calls out after a moment's hesitation, stepping out onto the porch after the worker. " How does a few more dollars sound? "

The age-old rule that Eve had been so quick to highlight the other evening rang truer here. Money talks. His head was snapping back to him almost before the words had even formed on his lips. This should go over smoothly, then. Which was good, because he really didn't care to deal with the kid when he was extracted from the barrel.

" Grab something to cut through that barrel. " A brief consideration. " A drill. And, if you're smart, I suggest you bring a handkerchief. Don't ask questions, you'll know what you need it for when it comes up. "

* * *

The noises in the garage were almost alarming at first, but he'd gotten used to it after a while. Instead, his focus was fixed intently on the kettle of water, waiting. He was almost certain that there would be no amount of coffee to get him through the morning a sane man.

Sugar. Enough that his brothers teased him about it occasionally. As he dropped the fourth into the otherwise empty cup, he lifts the kettle off the burner, just before the building screech of steam. He watches the crystal blocks dissolve in the scalding caramel liquid. It reminds him somehow of the way sand moves under the tide at the beach.

Burner off. Kettle in the sink. He fishes a spoon out of the drawer, and stirs. He can't hear the crunch of the grains of sugar grinding between the ceramic and the metal, but he can feel it.

The utensil is carried along around the circle of the mug when he drops it in surprise at the sudden scream. It hadn't been one of fear, but of pain rather, and Luck is briefly reconsidering his payment. The thought flees just as quickly as it comes, for after all, what comfort does he owe Dallas Genoard? He had been the cause of another case similar to what happened a few nights ago. It would heal, anyway.

Now that his attention is refocused, he can hear muffled voices, coughing, and a growing hysteria. It gets drown out very soon by something grinding away with an electrical whine at the cement. Today would be … interesting, he thinks. If nothing else, certainly _interesting_. Picking up the spoon, he taps it gingerly against the rim of his cup, then places it into the sink for later washing.

Now that he was more awake, perhaps giving Keith or Berga a quick phone call wouldn't hurt. After all, he hadn't planned to end up with the street rat punk in his home, but now that he was here, perhaps a few words were in order. His punishment had ended much earlier than he had hoped it would.


	2. Ever the Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It burns, more than the water does. It feels unnatural, wrong somehow. But he only squirms harder as the water level continues to lower. He needs this; the pressure against his chest can just get fucked, because he craves this, and there isn't a goddamn force in this metal prison that could take it away from him now. Not again. _Please, please, please_ –

Dallas is in the middle of waking up from another round when his head smashes against the side of the metal drum, he quickly falls victim to a rush of adrenaline. This, of course, results in more water in his mouth, and a deeper ache than he could ever remember up to now. That only serves to make him even more uncomfortable, if that was somehow possible. He prepares for the worst when he continues to be shifted around uncomfortably in the barrel, trying his best to make sense of the ordeal.

One practical concussion and blackout later, he finds himself pressed against his left shoulder. There's a lot of strange noises. _Noises_. He blinks a few times against the murky water, trying to see clearly, but there was still really nothing to see. Coughing up another mouthful of water, he relinquishes consciousness. It's always better that way. And if he's hearing things suddenly, he must be more fucked up than he was just the last time.

It's been a long while since he'd last been able to summon to mind his precious angel's voice, but this time, much to his pleasure, he hears her urging him again. He doesn't respond when she chides him to wake up, not this time. Rather, he revels in every syllable that rings in the depths of his psyche, hoping that maybe this time, she'll stay forever.

A loud clang startles him awake, and what he snaps back to almost scares him – he can actually see a break in the water. If he's under the river, there isn't any way possible that the water could be draining _out_ , but here it was, right over his head. In fact, he could feel the difference over his right shoulder, just a little bit. Oh God. Did the Gandors change their minds? If they dredged him up to put him through a worse punishment?

Whatever was going on, there was no way he was going to let this small window of opportunity escape him. Pressing his left arm against the barrel, he ignores the pain it sends through his elbow, and twists his torso desperately until his face is just over the surface and coughed up everything he possibly could. The water was still high enough that some returned to his mouth, but it was alright. This time, when he gasped desperately for a breath between his coughing fits – it wasn't all water.

It burns, more than the water does. It feels unnatural, wrong somehow. But he only squirms harder as the water level continues to lower. He needs this; the pressure against his chest can just get _fucked_ , because he _craves_ this, and there isn't a goddamn force in this metal prison that could take it away from him now. Not again. _Please, please, please_ –

Now he's sure those noises he heard earlier weren't his imagination. They're getting louder, now. There's a thunk against the top of the barrel, and it startles him. He screams. It gets garbled halfway by a wash of water, and he spits. Everything outside seems to stop. Then, all at once, the voices increase alarmingly, both in volume and quantity. There's a weird grinding noise overhead, but he can't focus on it, he's coughing again.

But he can breathe now, the water is just lapping at his ear, and he's hyperventilating, and it makes him dizzy, but he just doesn't _care_ anymore. How long had it been since he felt _this_? Something catches in his throat, and he goes into another coughing fit; mucus, water, probably other things – everything is coming up, and he's lightheaded. Things go black again.

* * *

He isn't sure where he is now, but he has managed to deduce a few things – whoever dug him out wasn't one of the Gandors, and unless they got new men in the time he was under, it probably had nothing to do with them at all. He was currently in the bed of a truck, and they'd had the decency to sit the barrel upright. But they hadn't opened it. Which was just fine, because the water rusted out the holes that had been drilled into it, and they were big enough that he could get some light, and precious amazing oxygen, in here.

There was a pool of water that layered over the cement in the barrel, and it came up to the bottom of his ribcage at best, but it still made him nervous as he shivered against the cold. Where was he going, what would happen when he got there? Would it be worse than what he just went through? _Could_ it be worse than what he just went through?

He's rocked backwards, and knocks his head again, and groans lowly in protest, but since he isn't quite sure who he's dealing with, and doubts they can hear him anyway, he leaves it at that. A loud thud. Then silence. A uncomfortable one. Coughing a few times more, he clears his throat, feeling _something_ in it. Probably more water lodged in the wrong tube, or whatever it was people called it when you inhaled something you shouldn't.

God, he just doesn't have the energy for anything right now. He lowers his gaze, and wriggles his fingers in the shallow puddle of water, assuring himself that even if he couldn't feel them, they were there. Satisfied, he closes his eyes, and tips his head back, taking another deep breath.

When he dozes off, he's only semi-aware of the voice returning. Which voice, he wasn't sure, but it was a voice that he simply registered as The Voice, and that was good enough for him. It wasn't familiar, so he would find out if he had to worry later. There's a lot of bumping around, and noise, but he doesn't pay any mind to it.

Everything settles down. A tension seems to ring in the air. And then suddenly, " Dallas Genoard? " … So whoever it was out there knew who _he_ was. They knew he was in there. His chest tightens, and all over again, he can't breathe. He isn't sure if he should answer, or pretend he didn't hear it. But then, what good would it do him? If they opened the damn thing, they'd find him inside, alive and not-quite-stable.

Swallowing hard, he clears his throat. He hasn't been able to use his voice in … who knows how long. His first attempt to respond dies on his lips with a wheezy breath, and he starts coughing _yet again_. There couldn't possibly be any more to cough up, could there? But then again, it's been long enough that there was nothing in his lungs but water. Or, there wasn't. So maybe there was.

That seemed to be enough of a response. The light filtering through the hole overhead is interrupted on and off in places as someone moves around above him, then an obnoxious grinding reverberates through his entire body. Oh _Christ_ , does he want it to stop – it's a hacksaw. They're opening the barrel, and he wants it to _stop_ , but he wants to get out of here, but …

" Please help, " he manages, albeit weakly. He isn't sure if they heard over the sound of metal tearing through metal. He leans as far forward as he can while still being comfortable, resting his elbows on the cement, and he feels a wave of nausea hit him. The smell of the water is a lot stronger in his shirt – or what's left of it now – now that he has actual usage of his senses, it invades his nostrils and churns his stomach.

He drops his arms, and tilts his head back, shutting his eyes tightly, and tries not to hear the man – at least, he assumed it was a man – working away at the cask. It's probably a few minutes later that thickly gloved hands brush against his shoulder as they work to peel away the rusted shell, and he yelps in surprise.

" Sorry! " comes a very startled voice from behind him. Dallas hesitantly looks back to see a portly man, looking to be in his mid-twenties. He seems entirely out of breath, but he smiles nonetheless. It's shaky. " Hey there. Um, are you – "

" Do I look okay? " he shoots back, but he doesn't sound nearly as angry as he feels. He's just tired, hungry, cold, nervous and miserable. He doesn't want to be here, what did this guy think he was going to get out of the stupid question? He lowers his eyes, and lets his head fall forward again. " … Just get me out. Please. "

There's a hesitation, then a nod. " Uh … We're gonna have to grind through all this cement. I'll do my best not to hurt you, okay? " He pulls away, bending down more metal all the way around to reveal the room they were in. A garage. A black Buick sat to the left.

The model, though, he wasn't sure. He hadn't seen that before. How long had he been under? The hand is against his shoulder again, more firmly this time, but he doesn't look.

" Okay, er. Here we go. I'm really, really sorry if I hurt you. "

" Hurry up. "

" Yes, sir. " And he sets to work behind him. Something electrical. Probably a work drill, but those things were complicated and obnoxious.

Or maybe he was just pampered. Having servants back home – _home, what a thought_ – for his whole life hadn't taught him much hard work. The streets only taught him who to avoid. At least, it had before this immortality incident. He should have known it was too good to work out in his favor.

His mind starts to wander, and he can almost ignore the noise. He wonders if his was the only barrel they dug up. Then he contemplates whether or not he actually cares. As long as Eve was safe at home, it didn't really matter. Whenever this guy was done, he'd just run. He'd get up, he'd run, and he wouldn't stop until he got home, had Eve in his arms, kissed her forehead and told her how sorry he was.

She would put her arms around his neck, and she'd hug him back. She'd probably be flushed red and flustered, and grinning through the swelling of tears in her eyes. He would kiss them away, tell her he didn't deserve the tears of such a pretty young woman –

A sharp pain shoots through him, starting in his thigh, and flooding through his whole body. He jerks upright, and howls in pain, nails digging into his palm. Oh, God, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, _it hurts_ –

" I am so, so sorry! " the man is saying as he turns off the power drill. He drops the instrument, and quickly digs into his pocket, but his hand freezes, and his breath catches in his throat. Tiny droplets of blood flow luxuriously from the drill bit, and whatever had oozed through the cracks in the cement receded, back into the injury. Eyes widening, he just sort of stared for a moment, not entirely sure what to say or do.

" … Just keep _going_ , " Dallas hisses when his racing heart begins to slow down again. Turning his head, he fixes narrowed eyes on the man. " _Hurry up_. "

" Y – Yes! " He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, because he understands now what Luck had said he would need it for, then without bothering to ask, he grabs Dallas' chin, and pulls his head up, and promptly shoves the cloth into his mouth. " Bite down on this, in case it happens again. I'm sorry. "

It takes Dallas more than a few seconds to make all of the connections, but when it hits him, it strikes hard. He lets another whine escape him through the cloth, and he doubles over against the cement, but inches to the side that the man isn't working on, keeping his fingers curled tightly against each other, and waits for the worst of it to be over.


End file.
